A Wicked Thing
by ahming
Summary: I'm never going to be like him. Things change. People change, too. I wonder when and if he'll ever realize that.
1. A Wicked Thing

_Don't really know why I wrote this. It probably won't exceed 2 chapters, 3 at the most. I just felt like writing.

* * *

  
_

Sighing, I roll onto my shell and stare up at my bare ceiling. Normally, a poster of Paulina Porizkova would greet me every morning. Now all the greeting I get is frigid rain dripping onto my forehead.

"Again?" I groan. "I just fixed you like, last week. You're killin' me, bro."

I glance over to my windows, still covered with blankets to keep the chill out, but judge from the bit of light trickling in that it is either very early, or a very mucky day outside.

With a soft yawn I force myself into a sitting position, lightly pawing at my head, wondering what time it is. I have visitors tomorrow morning, I remember, looking over my shoulder at my flattened pillows and my thin blankets.

My room really doesn't reflect me anymore. It isn't as colorful as my room back home. Everything is kind of drab and boring, but I don't really mind. You kind of just stop caring after a while.

After making my sleeping area "more acceptable", assuming someone will be using it, I begin to tuck away things of mine that might be of question in my new lifestyle. I'm not exactly a genius at keeping myself from freezing to death. Actually, any idiot could figure it out, but I've been too lazy to actually go out to the tarp and grab some wood for a fire, so I grab a shoddy orange vest I started wearing some time ago. It really doesn't keep me that warm, but ever since I stopped wearing my mask I felt the need to wear something.

It's over there on that dresser, but it seems silly of me to put it on. I don't even mind the way I look without it. I never really paid attention to my eyes before.

I debate grabbing it for another few minutes, my mind and body playing tag, an arm jerking out then retracting, unsure of itself, before I decide 'screw it' and wander off to make some breakfast.

Breakfasts here aren't as big as they used to be, since I'm only cooking for one. I don't eat as much as I used to at an entire sitting, but I do snack throughout the day. Mostly at night. If I live to see twenty two it will be a miracle. I can't imagine all the junk I eat being good for my heart, especially since I don't think turtles were designed to eat greasy pizza rolls and TV dinners in the first place.

I somehow doubt turtles were designed to practice the art of Ninjitsu, but I ignore that comment.

I haven't really done any practicing in months.

Stopping in the doorway I study the 'living room' for a minute or two, and then look back into the kitchen. Since moving here, it's gone through some major remodeling. All three of my brothers would be surprised, but I think Don in particular would be proud. April was cool enough to nab me a carpentry book before I left, and I just kind of went at it on my own with the tools available in the barn (rust city), and what I was able to get on my own.

The cabinets have all been refaced and are a creamy white; walls in the kitchen are now this really pale yellow color. I still haven't been able to do much about a new sink or a counter top, but I'm happy. I'm glad Case gave me the go-ahead because it sure looks different.

I figured the original reason I redid the kitchen first was because at home, the kitchen was my domain. I was top turtle there. Now, I try to avoid it, because all it brings are bad memories. Probably shoulda anticipated that one, but you know me. Stupid Michelangelo. Never thinking.

Any available counter space is taken up by thousands and thousands of Post Its, cases of Root Beer. I think my chucks are up there, too, but I really don't want to go look.

In no time I've rustled myself up the breakfast of champions, Irish coffee, black, scrambled eggs, and toast. I smile a little, remembering how I used to badger Leo when he made toast.

_'In order for that to be toast, it's gotta be toasted, dude. That's just warm bread.'_

As I sip at my mug of coffee, savoring its richness and the way its aroma fills my nose, the way it slowly begins to warm my entire body with just the first sip, I lazily swivel my chair towards the window.

I should be looking forward to tomorrow morning, but for some reason I dread it more than anticipate it.

I glance out the window for a moment or two, just now realizing that I had been right all along, it was raining. It was chilly the entire night, but I hadn't thought to check the weather. I rarely do, anymore.

Sometimes, you lie to each other out in the open, say it will be okay. Say you'll keep in contact, you'll hang out. But you don't.

Leo tried to contact me on a weekly basis, almost, until I finally just stopped answering. It wasn't because I didn't want to talk to him, no, I love my brother, I just... didn't feel bringing up things from the past.

I let myself drift off, watching droplets of rain dribble down the drip edge I had replaced some months earlier. They are thick and constant, sometimes combining together to form a thin line of rain.

Beyond the rain I can make out the trees, army and fern greens blending against the vibrant pear and lime colored yellows, areas of rust and organey mahogany not as dominant, but just as captivating.

Those brilliant colors seem out of place against the ashen sky, peeking through from the occasional bare spot. If I concentrate hard enough I can make out the tree branches themselves, long, dark and skinny, twisted and turned in the most magnificent of ways.

I return my attention to my coffee, wondering how in the world I ever got hooked on this stuff in the first place. Coffee was Don's prison, I frowned. Not mine. I guess I'm different now, though. I'm still Michelangelo, just... updated, I guess you could say.

It scares me to know that tomorrow; I have to face my family. Logically I knew I couldn't hide up here forever, it was Casey's farmhouse, and it was theirs just as much as it was mine.

I have a few hours left to myself, I assume, so I go about tidying up the house, playing out the thousands of different scenarios that could take place tomorrow.

None of them exactly end well.


	2. Michelangelo

_Here I am with a second chapter. This might be a bit longer than I thought. Don't expect anything too great, guys, I'm just writing inbetween fics to keep myself going. Anyway, here ya go, par'dner.

* * *

_

The next morning I'm an absolute basket case. Even Leo would be telling me to relax, and _that's _saying something.

A part of me can't wait to show them what I've done, to show them how far I've come on my own, and another part of me isn't ready for this confrontation because I know I'm not ready to 'face my demons' yet.

Leo just doesn't get that. I guess I can't blame him. Even though we're brothers, we aren't the same people. I'm not his little clone, I'm not like him. I'm never going to be like him. Things change.

People change, too.

I wonder when and if he'll ever realize that.

Since the kitchen is... presentable, I wander into the living room and start to calculate the damage. So far, not so bad, I think to myself. I generally stay out of the living room, but I have the astounding ability to completely total a room just by walking into it. So the mess is understandable.

I pretty much left the living room alone at Casey's request, so everything is still there; the gaudy gamboge colored lamp near the purple curtains, the massive fireplace, that really classy sofa with the wood finish and the cherry red cushions. Even that weird looking shelf that sticks out like a sore thumb. I did swap the drab wooden flooring for a more modern, frozen-pizza-box carpeting, though. Something tells me Casey's grandparents wouldn't approve, but I haven't had any ghostly visitors so far.

After clearing the floor of an entire months worth of garbage I notice an odd sound coming from off to the right. Kind of like a wheezy snoring. I spot my feline sidekick- long retired, quietly snoozing on a tangerine colored recliner and I smirk, quietly wandering over.

Before I left I insisted that I take Klunk, because I am his daddy, after all. I found him. I played with him. I fed him. It was only fair that I get him. Nobody wanted _me_ to leave, but everyone seemed pretty happy to get rid of Klunk. Everyone but Raph. He hid it well, but I always knew he had a soft spot for the little fur ball.

I gently place my foot on the recliner seat with Klunk, and then press down, hard, causing Klunk to bolt up from his nap and glare at me. I think he learned that glare from Raph, because I'm surprised to find it makes me feel prickly all over.

"Hi, Klunk," I smile and bend down to scoop him up. I rub under his chin and bounce him around in my arms a little, slinging him over my shoulder. "We're having company today, dude, so you better behave. Stay off the kitchen floor, got it? I just mopped it."

Klunk hops from my arms and lazily stretches himself out before waddling off to no doubt go walk across the kitchen floor I clearly remember telling him to stay off of. I groan and shrug the inconvenience off, walking over to the fireplace, inspecting it with a blackened poker. Just as I suspected. It's basically ash, which means I need to get outside and start chopping some wood or we'll all be turtle-cicles by the end of the night.

Plus, I'm kind of anxious and want to be outside in case they pull up sometime soon.

"Klunk," I cup my hand around my mouth and call, "I'm going to get some fire wood. If anyone calls, take a message. Okay?"

Now I know Klunk can't take a message. He's illiterate. Plus, nobody ever calls. I unplugged the phone.

The only response I get is a tiny squeak and what I assume is the mop Klunk knocked over.

For this expedition I will require more than a vest, so I bundle up in a snow beanie Donnie got off eBay one year for Christmas and a silvery gray jacket. Raph always said I looked moronic in the beanie, but I absolutely love it. It's checkered with rusty red and army green and it has this puff ball at the top and two long stringy ties.

Before I leave I grab a warped old wooden sled to help bring the firewood back home, the really old kind with metal runners. The fact that if glides effortlessly across the grass and leaves makes my life ten times easier, and since the grass is still slick from the morning dew, it's even easier than normal.

The trek out to the chopping block is the best part. The woods are silent, but not eerie, peaceful, if anything. Every time the wind blows I can hear the leaves overhead rustle and threaten to crackle. There aren't a whole lot of them on the ground yet but the ones that have fallen are crunchy and ripe.

Making a mental note to pile them up later on and jump in them, I grab the handle of the axe and jerk and twist it free from the ancient stump jutting out from the ground. Positioning the sled near the stump I drop the rope and start to get to work.

Luckily I had enough sense in me to leave a few trunks wrapped up in a plastic blue tarp a while ago so I don't have that much work ahead of me. Bending down I pull the tarp up and inspect the tree trunks, most are skinny and probably won't burn too well, but there are a few decent sized logs I can use. Digging my feet into the ground I wrap my arms around one and lug it up onto the chopping block. Down the axe goes, the resistance causing a deep, freezing ache to start in my wrists and travel up into my elbows, all the way into the bones. It's a rewarding kind of pain, the kind that lets you know you're alive.

On my way back to the house I stop to watch a tiny bird shoot out of the safety of its nest and do summersaults in the air, meeting up with another bird mid-flight. I don't know if it's mating season or not, but the other bird doesn't seem to be interested and flutters off, leaving its pursuer chasing after it like mad.

In the city you don't see things like this. The sky is just as blue, I'm sure, but I can't remember. The night sky vastly differs from the one back home, though. Out here, you can climb up onto the roof and watch the stars all night long. I think Don would like that.

I imagine Leo at the wheel, white-knuckled and seething because of something Raph said or did, Don huddled in the back of the van with his nose buried in a book, trying his best to ignore the road rage that is Leonardo. He tries to hide it, but he's always been an insane driver. He isn't anywhere as near as bad as Raph, but he gets irritated over the smallest things. Donnie can't drive to save his life. Literally. I think I'm the only one in the family that has any road-sense. How scary is _that?_

There is no van pulled up next to the house when I return so when I come inside, trying my best not to drop a 20lb tree trunk through the wooden flooring, I glance at the clock. They should be here within the hour. I can almost see Leo hunched over the steering wheel, complaining that they're making terrible time because of the drunken old blind lady two cars ahead.

Successfully avoiding the rug right behind the door entrance that I've tripped over countless times and have yet to move, I wobble over to the fireplace where I'm joined by Klunk. In no time I've got a roaring fire going, and sit back on the fancy shmancy sofa, idly twirling my foot.

Klunk hops up onto the seat next to me and mews.

"Bad news, compadre. We're out of food."

He paws at my hand sadly, and tries to lick my forearm. I keep palming his face and pushing him away. "Psyche! You so fell for that." I poke him in the nose and gather him up in my arms, heading over to the kitchen. "You should have seen your face, you were all like," I make a face, but he ignores me and scrambles out of my arms and onto the kitchen counter, starting a kitty crescendo of meows.

Deciding I've messed with him enough I feed him and get started on something for dinner, assuming the first thing out of Raph's mouth will be, 'Hey. I'm starving'.

We're more alike than most people think.

I'm still incredibly lazy and used to snacking throughout the day, so I start a pot of boiling water and when its ready throw in a box of noodles, preheating the oven all the while. Once the noodles are cooked and strained, I toss them in a glass casserole dish and coat that bad boy with an entire packet of cheese, then pop it in the oven. The cheesier the better, I always say.

While the dinner is cooking I retire to my recliner and try to numb my mind with television. Yeah, the television looks kind of out of place in here, but it's a portable, so really there's no problem. I only get three channels, though. The news, cartoons, and whatever's on when The Price Is Right isn't.

Somewhere in between Bonkers and Ren and Stimpy I hear a van door slide shut and I nearly hop out of my shell.

I wait behind the door for a few minutes and try to compose myself, but then I realize they can probably see my shadow and roll my eyes, peeling the door open.

My teeth start to chatter instantly. Chillier than it had been a few hours earlier.

Leo is the first to notice me because Donnie is admiring the same trees I was just yesterday morning.

A big smile envelops my older brother's face as he slowly climbs up the two stairs leading onto the ranch-style porch. I smile back and we exchange hugs and pleasantries.

"Hi," he says shyly.

"Hi," I say back.

It's nice to just look at him. He's studying my face curiously, and it only then strikes me that I'm not wearing my mask. My hand wanders up to my face and I gently feel my cheek, smiling a shy smile.

Leo says, "You don't wear your mask anymore."

I think he meant for it to be a question but know it isn't. I can't tell if that's surprise or sadness in his voice, but I nod anyway.

"You stopped answering my calls."

I open my mouth to reply, but before I get a chance to, Don swan dives out of nowhere and slams into me. Before I have time to realize what just happened we're hugging and both laughing.

I'm actually glad Don barged into me, because Leo smiles a little and seems to let the interrogation rest. He knows I haven't been answering, I know I haven't been answering, everyone knows. I don't see why he has to ask.

Something about this meeting seems awkward, not as awkward as I had predicted, but still off.

"It's freezing," I remind myself, and usher them inside where the fire is warm and crackling.

And then I remember. "Where's Raph?"

Leo looks over at me and says, "He'll be up in two days."

"He had some things to take care of," Don finishes for him.

I wonder what 'things' is code for.

The last thing of Raph I can remember before packing it up and heading out is him standing in my doorway in the middle of the night. I was half asleep so I didn't call out to him, but a part of me always regrets that.

We all have really tight bonds, but I think when I left I hurt Raph a lot. Leo leaving was hard enough. I always went after him when he got mad, or tried to comfort him. Not like Leo or Don would, though. I'd just make some stupid face, crack some lame joke, and he'd shake his head and laugh a little. I can only assume what kind of trouble he's been into.

"Oh," I say, and close the door.

This alerts Klunk that our guests have arrived, and he comes tearing out of the kitchen, back legs moving faster than front legs as he rounds the corner, leaving him in mid air for a minute. All three of us laugh as Klunk zips over to us, careful to avoid the fire, and then rears back on his hind legs, pawing at Don's knee pads. He grabs Klunk up and hugs him, scratching behind his ears. "Hiya, Klunk. Did you miss me? My lab has been awfully quiet without you, you know."

Leo, still smiling, glances over at me quickly at the mention of how quiet things have been at home. I figured they'd be quiet.

Donnie suddenly pulls a face and glares at me in that 'I'm going to eat you alive' manner which I've missed all this time. "He weighs a ton, Mikey. What have you been feeding him?"

"He's gotten big," Leo agrees.

I shrug and poke at the fire with the poker a little. "Pizza rolls, meatloaf,-"

Don's eyes go wide, "You can't be serious. You can't feed a cat that kind of food!"

"He likes it!" I argue back. "Besides, I still feed him cat food."

_Food._

_Food._

Something clicks.

"Oh, shell!" I hurriedly yank the fire poker from the fire and lean it up against the mantle and dart off to the kitchen, leaving Donnie with a blank look, still scratching Klunk's chin.

"Nice one, Michelangelo," I mutter to myself as I slip on two oven mitts and pry the oven open, reaching inside for the macaroni dish. It's a little smoky, and a little crispy, but still edible. I hope. Groaning, I shut the oven off and start prodding at the monstrosity curiously with a fork. It crunches. Fan_tastic._

I hear Leo call from the living room, "Do you need any help, Mikey?"

"N-" I try to say no, but he's already in the doorway, looking just as confused as Don.

He cranes his neck up, instantly realizing the walls are a different color than they were the last time he was here. The counter tops aren't littered with root beer boxes anymore, but my nun chucks are still up there somewhere. I know he sees them, because he inhales quickly. That's a telltale sign someone is about to say something, and then decides against it.

The post its aren't cleared up, either. If it wasn't for them, I'd never remember anything.

When you live alone, time becomes a pointless thing. A clock can tell you what time of day it is, and a calendar can tell you _what_ day it is, but it's all useless information to me now. I sleep when I'm tired and eat when I'm hungry. The post its are to remind me that I need to eat to stay alive, or of chores that need to be done to keep the house livable.

"I got it, I got it!" I say over and over, fanning the bubbling pot of macaroni. "Just a little, um…" I sigh and poke at it with a fork. "Crunchy."

Leo materializes next to me and in my haste and panic I almost jab him with said fork. Ninja or not, that's just rude. "I don't think Macaroni is supposed to be crunchy," he says.

I know I look irritated, because I am, but I ignore his comment and start trying to salvage what I can of our dinner. I sigh in relief. Only the top layer is burnt.

I hand him a plate, and when he doesn't take it, I look up, wondering what's taking so long. I've got a dinner to get going here, doesn't he realize that?

"So how are you?" He says quietly, finally taking the plate.

I see Don poke his head in, notice what's going on, and then slip into the background.

I shrug, trying to look busy. "Good, I guess."

I'm able to avoid his bombardment of questions for about five minutes while setting up the kitchen table, with his help. Once all the silverware is in place he says, "So, are you really good, or are you just saying you're good?"

He probably thinks asking the questions not all at once helps me, but it really doesn't. Not asking the questions at all is what would help me the most.

Sighing, I squeeze my eyes shut, my back to him, wanting him to vaporize.

And this is why I've been avoiding his calls.

Leo thinks he can save everyone. It's kind of ironic, really. He's always telling Raph he can't save the world, no matter how hard he tries, and he always tells us we can't save people who don't want to be saved, i.e Raph. Kinda funny in a roundabout way, huh?

So I'll admit I'm a little immature for my age, I mean, none of us really had a typical childhood. Typical for humans, I mean. We only started learning about holidays and sledding, BBQs, picnics, sports, through the television when we were teenagers. And the didn't even get to participate in many of those even after learning about them. The ones we did get to try were usually at night when no one could see us.

Back to the point.

I'm immature, there's no denying that. But I'm not a child anymore. I'm twenty years years old. Why can't he just _accept_ that?

When I turn around Leo's lingering by the kitchen table, idly gripping the edge of a chair. He just keeps staring at me like he expects me to burst into tears and instantly come running to him with open arms. Maybe a couple of years ago, I think to myself, but not now. I haven't cried since Master Splinter died. He knows that.

Giving civility another shot before I explode, I grit my teeth and smile. "I'm good, Leo. Really."

"Mikey…"

And here it comes.

I sigh and shake my head, pointing at a chair with my finger. I start calling Donnie and Klunk for dinner, but Leo keeps talking.

"You haven't cried at all, Mike. That isn't healthy. You need to grieve. You can't keep pretending nothing ever happened."

"Leo, now really isn't a great time," I snap, carelessly dropping a glass plate onto the table. It clangs and swivels a little before becoming still.

"You can't keep hiding yourself away; it isn't going to change _anything_-"

"Leo-"

"Come home with us, we have to deal with this as a family, Mikey."

"Leo!" I grimace and squint my eyes at him.

Doesn't he see what I've managed on my own? If we were home right now this argument never would have happened, because at home, I'm Michelangelo. The peace keeper. But here, now, Leo's on my turf and he has absolutely no right to start attacking me. Not after what I've accomplished on my own. Nobody has the right to take that away from me.

Nobody. Not even him.

"I'm fine!" I hiss. "Now sit down and eat!"

He doesn't appear to be surprised, or defeated, but takes a seat on my command, his eyes never leaving mine.

Donnie slinks in after a few awkward minutes, followed by Klunk. Once he's seated he blinks and starts looking around, noticing the renovations I've made. He's impressed, just as I thought. He doesn't say anything because everyone knows the compliment would be ignored because of the awkward silence, but his eyes roam around the room, calculating how long everything took, possibly even wondering how I managed it with how bad my math skills are.

We eat in silence, aside from Klunk's purring. He missed Don a lot more than I thought.

I figure I'm the only one who can start a conversation at this point without waging war across the dinner table, so I say, "…So how's Casey?"


	3. Raphael

_Attention Leo lovers: Tauni and I (crackernchinkinc) are looking for Leo-enthusiasts who would like to guest write in a little fic we're doing, involving four writers (Tauni, Me, Willowfly, and a guest writer). If interested please message me, or the screen name 'Tauni'. Thanks p.s i'm making this fic up as I go, so bare with me. xD Hah, I messed up so bad. EVERYONE WHO NOTICED THE MESS UP- IGNORE IT!  
_

* * *

"I _got_ it, Leo," I huff into the receiver. Cocking my head to the side and animatedly slouching my entire body I wait for him to wrap up the same speech I've heard about six times since last night. Out of the corner of my eye I spot that dirt bag, Arnold Casey Jones. I wince, realizing it's too late to dodge the attack. In a matter of seconds Casey flings himself onto the back of my shell, and due to the excess weight I topple over on top of him.

_Betcha didn't plan for that, didja, douchebag?_

"I mean it, Raph," Leo says. I can't make out the rest of what he says at the moment because I'm busy scrambling around on the floor with Casey. I'm sure Mikey would find it absolutely hilarious, but right now, gesturing to the phone irritably, I find it annoying as hell. Casey pays no mind.

"Get off me, you asshole!" I grunt, shrugging my shoulder roughly in order to push him away. I succeed in rolling over and reaching for the phone, but then he plows back into me full force, knocking me onto my side.

"Leo!" He squawks as loud as possible, as we're now some distance from the phone. "Raph sa- OOF!"

With no other options in sight I palm his face and toss him to the side like a rag doll.

"Grow up, will ya?" I grumble, grabbing for the phone. I'm smirking, though, and as he climbs to his feet, I see he is, too.

"Ah, who needs ya!" He waves me off.

For a 30 year old man, Casey can be pretty fucking immature sometimes.

"Casey?" Leo asks.

"Yeah," I mutter into the phone.

Finally, the jerkoff calls his attack off and retreats to his bedroom to do who knows what.

"How is he?"

I shrug, even though I know Leo can't see me. "Okay, I guess."

Leo falls silent for a few minutes.

I blink.

Well, what was I supposed to say? He's got his ups and downs. He's trying.

Peeling myself up from the floor, I wander around Case's apartment, touching and examining things, half paying attention to what Leo's really saying. I have it memorized, practically. Don and him are going up to visit Mike, how many times is he going to tell me? I'm supposed to be there in two days. I vouched to stay back with Casey- the guy needs it. He's a wreck, though, he won't show it.

Casey's really changed over the past couple of years. When I first met him, he was living in a two room apartment with a shoddy hand-me-down recliner (that we inherited some years ago, coincidentally), a fuzzy rabbit eat TV and two mattresses shoved in the corner for a bed. Not because he was poor or anything, he was just lazy as fuck.

I'll never forget the first time he laid eyes on April. He annoyed the hell out of her. She warmed up to him though, and soon enough she was actually enjoying his company. I think April was the best thing to ever happen to him, personally. Sure, I was able to deck him in the jaw when he was getting out of control, like he did for me, but April did something I never could do, she talked sense into him. Ignoring years and years of Father-Leo advice, I guess the sense-talking lessons never really sank in.

Any idiot with eyes could see that Casey fell head over heels for April in an instant. Any time he was around her he would get this flushed look on his face and this goofy grin. I used to tease him about it, but I think we all secretly knew they'd end up together someday.

After steering the conversation around and listening to Leo hiss at some blockhead whose blinker had been on for the last two miles, Leo says, "No heavy drinking, okay? You have to be able to drive." As if that weren't enough to make me sigh in disgust, he goes on to say, "And if you guys _do_ go out, _try_ not to get your shell kicked?"

"Yes ma'am," I chuckle. Over the years I guess I've... aged a little. I wouldn't exactly say matured. Leo and me still go toe to toe sometimes, but for the most part, we're a lot closer than we've been since we were kids.

"Raph," he warns me. I nod my head jokingly and quiet down. "There's a first aid kit in the lab just incase-"

"I know where it is," I say. I'm very familiar with the first aid kit, granted, not as familiar as I was a few years ago. And I have every inch of the lab down pat. Really. I spent a lot of my teenage years there, when I wasn't busy lifting weights or bashing skulls.

I keep an eye out for Casey but he still hasn't emerged from his bedroom, so I turn my back to the last place I saw him and let Leo prattle on for another few minutes before Don interrupts him, asking for the phone. "We should be arriving early tomorrow morning- Why do you_ not_ have your lights on, you _crazy person!_ It's dark out! -hold on, Donnie wants to say something."

I smirk, assuming the phone was dropped, because I hear what sounds like some fumbling, a keypad being smashed, and some light cursing from Don, before: "Hello?"

"Go," I say quickly, plucking one of Casey's older hockey sticks from the side of the wall. He's got about four or five of them leaning there, some newer, but I like this one best. It's a tan color and splintered around the handle. Adjusting the phone so it rests between the side of my head and my shoulder, I take a practice swing.

"You'll be up in two days right?" Don asks.

"Yeah. Two days," I remind him. "Tell Leo to quit worryin'."

I imagine him smirking on the other line, turning away from Leo. "Yeah, fat chance. Hey, listen, Raph-"

I miss whatever he has to say because at that moment Casey strolls out of the kitchen, fastening his skull-bashing mask onto his face. I glance at his bedroom door confusedly, wondering how he managed to get past me. I squint and point over to his door with my thumb, shrugging my shoulders and shaking my head, asking him with my body how the hell he pulled that one off.

He jerks his head up at me, and I instantly know what's on his mind. I nod and hand the hockey stick over, but he shakes his head and points to another, slinging his golfing bag around his neck. You'd figure after all these years he'd get some new equipment, but nah, he likes to keep it simple.

"How's this, yer majesty?" I say sarcastically, handing him the hockey stick by the handle. He nods and swipes it out of my hand, throwing it into the golf bag slung across his shoulder.

When I look back I catch a glimpse of Casey sneaking out onto the fire escape like a secret agent. "Hey, Don, I gotta go," I cup my hand around the phone and pull it close to my mouth. My body is already inching forward towards the window. "Okay? Tell Mikey I said hey."

"Two days, right?" He says hopefully.

"Two days," I confirm.

Snapping the phone shut I secure it in my belt and make my way out the window onto the fire escape after Casey. When I get out there he's already on the roof, and I'm left wondering how the hell he moves so fast for being so damn old.

Deciding to take the metal stairs like a law-abiding citizen I join him on the roof, and a few seconds later we're both perched up there in the moonlight with the chilly wind stinging our faces.

"Don't you have work tomorrow?" I ask him.

He nods and shrugs slowly. "Yeah."

A few years back Casey got a job as a plumber. He didn't really want it, but it had on the job training, and paid well, so of course April encouraged him. He acts like he's ashamed of it sometimes, but I mean, fuck, I live in a _sewer._

The city is relatively quiet for such a night; it's almost eerie in a sense. Over the past couple of years organized crime has gone down considerably, but we've still got a few wiseass copy-cat teenagers. Most of the original members of the Purple Dragons are either dead or in jail, but the new age generation are quickly multiplying. These kids don't play around, either. 3 out of 4 carry guns now, in place of bike chains and switchblades.

The Foot are still out there, but Hun doesn't work for The Shredder anymore. Last I heard, Hun doesn't work with The Purple Dragons, either. I think he fled the City and is dabbling in drugs and weapon exchange, now.

Shredhead shows his ugly mug once in a while, but as far as I know, he's in remission for the time being. Good thing, too, because ever since Mikey left we've really been lacking.

From up here I can see the millions of lights glowing from miles away. They start to blur together if you stare for too long.

Casey sighs next to me and presses his hand onto my shoulder, stepping up onto the ledge of the building. He puts his hands on his hips, surveying the bleak streets below.

"You wanna just hit the streets or you got a particular haunt in mind?" I ask him, careful not to startle him. Maybe a few years ago I would have, but I know next to nothing about how the human body ages, and all I need is to have to call Leo and tell him I won't be coming because Old Man Jones broke his hip in a fall that was_ my_ fault. Yeah, that'd go over well.

"Ah, I figure free for all," Casey replies, squinting behind his mask. "You go high, I go low? First one to nab a JV lowlife wins?"

I shrug and nod.

We haven't been doing this as much as we used to since Casey's started working full time. Usually only on the weekends now. At first, it drove me absolutely insane to have to sit underground the entire week. It wasn't like going topside would fix anything; stopping crime by yourself is boring. At one point I actually got scared that I might be getting bored with being a vigilante, and I mean, if I live for 70 years, and I'm getting bored at twenty two years old… I'm in some serious trouble.

Before I can question Casey any further, he hops down the fire escape and lands in a puddle in the ally below. He waves up to me and flips his mask down, pulling out his hockey stick. Then he rushes into the streets.

I seriously wonder how he's never been picked up by the police, wandering around like that.

I shrug and let the matter drop, following him from the roofs. I'm scanning the streets, but most importantly, I'm watching him.

The streets are uncharacteristically silent. A few cars go by, but otherwise, nothing. I didn't really expect much, to be honest. Most of the homeless are either at soup kitchens or sleeping on abandoned stoops, covered in newspapers. I figure all the kids are at parties or something. I'm about to call it quits, when suddenly I hear a struggle from somewhere behind me. Frowning, I start tracing my steps, wondering how I had possibly missed a potential crime.

"Casey!" I holler, but really don't give him a chance to find me.

No Purple Dragons. What I see makes me want to vomit. There's a man down there, maybe a few years older than me, and he's holding a gun eye level with a girl who looks to be about sixteen. I figure she's either a run away or she snuck out for the night. The possibilities are endless, but I'm pretty sure she suggested a blowjob in exchange for some sort of drug, probably marijuana. He probably wanted more from her, and she resisted, which explains why she's huddling in the corner crying, and he's pissing on her like some sick fuck, smacking his dick against her face.

I hate fuckers like this.

I know I've only been watching for two seconds, but it feels like ten. I notice a Casey-shaped shadow materialize in the opening of the alleyway and make my move. It's my job to disarm the scumbag at first, and Casey's to get the girl out into the street and to safety.

Leaping from the roof I fly down and land behind him, kicking the gun out of his hand. Since he was so interested in smearing his piss all over this girl's face disarming him was unbelievably easy. I quickly shove him into the shadows and deliver a swift uppercut into his gut while Casey rushes in and picks the girl up, carrying her out into the street.

"What the fucks wrong with you?" I say in disbelief to the cowering heap of pink flesh on the trash scattered ground.

I get no reply, but I just keep sneering at him like he's diseased or something. He is diseased. Something in his head is sick and wrong and it makes me furious. I feel the anger I've somehow managed to bury all these years spark in the pit of my stomach, but I only get dying embers.

The man retches and vomits onto a muddled newspaper stuck to the floor. I don't know how I didn't notice it before, but the guy positively reeks of alcohol.

"Yo, Raph, you save any butt kickin' for me?" Casey cracks as he steps over to me.

"Where'd you-"

"Porch," he jabs his thumb behind him into the street. "Put her on someone's porch and rang the doorbell. She ain't hurt, just fainted." Returning his attention to the guy on the floor he pokes at him with his tennis shoe, flipping his mask up. He frowns in disgust. "Bum?"

"I don't know," I say. "He had a gun."

"Was it loaded?" He asks, bending down to search the area with his hand. "Where'd you knock it out of his hand at?"

I point over to the wall and he continues the search.

"Damnit," he sighs. His shoulders drop.

"What?"

Groaning, he stands up and turns around, brandishing the weapon. "It's a BB gun."

Where in the hell did he get a BB gun in the city?

"Hey, you," Casey says, turning around and prodding at the lifeless body with his foot again. "Hey. Wake up."

"He's out," I inform him.

Casey gives me this 'gee, do ya think, Raph?' kind of look and I shrug. "Just trying to help. Oh, I win, by the way."

While Casey is busy studying the BB gun out loud I blink and snap my head over to the street, instantly recognizing the red and blue flashing lights creeping closer and closer. I hear a car door slam, then another. I tap Casey on the shoulder and we climb up the fire exit and steal away into the night, undetected, as always.

Sometime later I'm biding my time in a warped old tree trying to back off a bit 'cause I know Casey wants to be alone. I can't help but shudder, though, cemeteries really creep me out. I think of my Father and his resting place up at the farmhouse. He would have liked to have been buried in Japan, I'm sure, but with how things are, right now it's impossible. We briefly discussed having April excavate his grave a few years down the line when we've made some more money and doing a reburial, but I think Leo wants him to stay there. He says he wants to be buried there, too. I keep telling him he shouldn't be thinking about dying, he's only twenty two.

The fact that I can overhear Casey's conversation tells me I should move further away, but I'm frozen in place.

"I didn't bring you no flowers this time, April, but I will next time, promise. I know I didn't dress up, either." His voice falters for a minute. I can hear it crack, but he quickly rebounds and tries to change the subject. "Raph and me saved this girl tonight, you know. Well, I mean, I know you know, but… Man, I'm bad at making conversation. I bet you're laughing at me, huh?"

What he says next really makes me wish I would have left when I had the chance. "I miss your laugh."

It was hard enough for Casey to try to console me when my Father died. That was probably the hardest thing I think my brothers and I have ever had to go through. Everyone's different, now. Aged, like I said before, but not exactly matured. I think this change will be permanent for Leo. He always was the closest to our father.

When April passed away, I had no idea what to do or say to Casey. I loved my Father, I love my brothers, I loved April and Casey, too, but Casey was _in_ love with April. The gaping holes in our hearts are similar, but different.

I change my position in the tree and watch as Casey kneels down, caressing the marble headstone, tracing the letters with his fingers.

He isn't even worried about masking the cracking of his voice anymore, but I can tell he's trying not to lose it. He sniffs and pulls something halfway between a sob and a chuckle, wiping at his eyes. "I'll be back on Sunday, okay? How's about I bring a picnic basket or somethin', you like those, right?"

Sighing I drop from the tree into the grass, making sure to stay off any graves. I inspect the curly metal gate surrounding the cemetery and blink when Casey nudges into my shoulder, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He smiles shyly and jerks his head back to April's headstone, alerting me it's my turn.

I hesitate for a second, but to appease him I approach the grassy mound and stay a few minutes, reciting what I've said inside the safety of my own mind a million times over. I've memorized it, much like the speech I prepared for when my father passed away. Even after he died I wouldn't actually speak to him out loud. I keep my thoughts and my feelings for the deceased behind closed lids. I don't really know if I believe in Heaven or not, but I figure they can hear me.

April was a big part of our lives. I can't help but feel that I've lost a mother, as well as a father.

I guess the on the positive side of losing two of the people I've cared for more than anything in my entire life, I suddenly realized how important it was to tell the remaining people I cared for how I felt. I still have horrendous issues with this, especially with Mikey because he turns everything into a fucking joke (Don says it's a coping strategy), but I can tell Leo approves. There's this new glow behind his eyes every time he looks at me, one I never saw when growing up. I think he might be proud of me.

For the longest time, I thought my father and my brothers had given up on me. It's a horrible feeling, and instead of trying to fix it, you just want to lash out as violently as possible. Give them reason to doubt you, so they'll stop trying to reach you.

I'm glad the animosity between Leo and me is fading. I think my father would be happy.

"You ready to go?" Casey says from behind me.

"Yeah," I say. "You?"

He nods and I turn, accompanying him to the exit, sticking close to the shadows.


	4. Leonardo

_This story hasn't been dropped, don't worry. I got bogged down with the big scene in Clandestine. I already have the next chapter STARTED, it just needs to undergo some tweaking. Sorry, people, thanks for being patient.  


* * *

_

Watching my two younger siblings tease and torment our furry feline friend, I find myself smiling from the confines of one of the recliner chairs.

"So, does Klunk like it here?" Don asks, trying to initiate small talk.

The few conversations we've had have been simply trivial conversation, their sole purpose being to make us feel consoled, allowing us to ease into a state of normality. Or mindless repetition. I haven't decided yet.

Mike nods and smooth's the cat's fur. "Yeah, but I don't let him out at night. I don't want him to get into any trouble, because you like trouble, doncha Klunker-wunkers?"

The tiny cat mews as if to confirm the accusations.

I smirk softly, catching him flashing a cunning glance in my direction (I wonder if cats have the ability to do so).

I've been resting here for quite some time now, just watching my small family try to rekindle the bond once thought to be inseparable. I know it's wrong of me, but I like to leave my eyes cracked open just a bit and let my head lull to the side, just trying to pretend we're back home. Trying to pretend Mikey is laughing and smiling, or even frowning and complaining endlessly about something Raphael has done to irritate him. I try my hardest to see Donatello looking at our Father, smiling, happy. A part of me finds these reoccurring thoughts repulsive, and yet another part of me finds it oddly comforting.

A small fire warms my very bones, casting a friendly glow about the room.

Michelangelo's welcoming was as expected. Forcibly polite, like a neatly tied package, but tied much too quickly, causing… knots.

Despite our somewhat standoffish reunion, the home has quickly become inviting, ushering away the awkwardness I was presented upon my arrival.

The atmosphere is warm and hospitable, though I cannot help but feel strangely chilled.

Detached, if you will.

Donatello smiles sadly at Mike who is now cradling the cat in his arms. Klunk seems less than enthused. Agitated, to be exact. He claws his way up Mike's shoulder and hops off the back of his shell, trotting a few yards away where he then proceeds to plop down and clean himself.

The woods that scatter the little farmhouse outside are dark and deep, and from where I am sitting, the view out the window does nothing to calm my weary nerves.

Throughout my life I've fought to uphold a certain image, one my brothers can look up to and admire in their own individual ways.

Raphael has always sought to challenge me head on, and for that I have always admired his fiery spirit and passion.

Donatello quickly adapted to the more passive role in the family. Even if he didn't exactly agree with what I had to say, he would approach the subject much like he would a complex calculation, offering alternative suggestions and such.

That only leaves Michelangelo. He's always been the most impressionable in the family. Lighthearted, easy going. He used to tell us that he'd never grow up, and for the longest time, I actually believed him.

How wrong we both were.

As wrong as it may seem, I expected our father's passing would only bring us closer as a family. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine it would literally tear us apart.

At first, Michelangelo did what everyone but Raph couldn't, he cried. Honestly, I don't think I've ever seen Mike cry like that before. He wept unashamedly. It frightens me that I can recall those memories so vividly, that I can relive the torment of watching my younger brothers shoulders shake so violently. If I concentrate hard enough, I can even hear the gasping wheezes.

All things must come to an end, though, and sometime later even Michelangelo had run out of tears.

Donatello and I reacted much the same; we suffered in silence as older brothers often do. I originally expected Raphael to follow suit, so naturally I was a bit surprised at first to find_ Don _shutting himself away.

What I faced while alone in my room shall remain a nameless, faceless foe. I always found it odd that my fears, rational or irrational, would manifest themselves in the form of a faceless being, draining my very life source directly from my frozen veins.

I suppose Don's insight into the medical world aided in him saying goodbye to our beloved Master and closing that chapter of his life like some musty old text, but I know he still carries the pain with him, a would that will not heal, no matter how many nights sleep he loses.

Raphael surprised us all. To be completely honest, I expected him to fall quickly after our father. A horrible thing to even think about, but I had accepted and prepared my brothers, assuming Raphael would die young due to his own recklessness. Directly after our father's passing, he carried on with his usual antics, punching walls, tearing through the streets at suicidal speeds, paying hardly any mind to pedestrians. It troubles me to know that I was well aware he didn't care about his own life then, but I'm so glad he continued to fight.

When he returned, he simply was not the same person. No matter which way you spun it, Raphael had changed.

We'd all changed, but it was painfully obvious especially in Michelangelo and Raphael. To know that I could not assist them in any way with their heartache stung far worse than any injury I'd ever received.

As my eyes settle on the back of Don's shell, I feel myself drift out of the confines of my own mind, and smile just for the sake of smiling. I find smiling, no matter what you're feeling, is the most pleasing expression one can encounter.

"Klunk!" Donnie taunts the little devil, waving his mask around Klunk's head like a prize.

Klunk rears back on his hind legs and paws at the dangling edge of my brother's mask playfully.

As I return my gaze to the window, I study the light frost forming there, and force my mind elsewhere.

We buried him here, at the farmhouse. It was the only place we could think of where he would not be disturbed. The mere thought of laying him to rest in the sewers didn't rest well with any of us.

Thankfully Casey had no objections to letting us have his funeral there. I think since Japan was out of the question, this was the next best place. Here he can feel the seasons change from Winter to Spring, feel the ground freeze over and warm itself to life again. As morbid as it may seem I find the thought somewhat comforting, having my father so close to nature again.

I tried my best to guide my brothers through this hardship. I really did. Donatello and April made attempts to round us up for therapy of sorts, but no one really caught on. I think that that point we were all emotionally numb. No one wanted to try. We didn't see a point.

I do admit I probably allowed everyone to grieve much longer than necessary, but it was only because I too, was unable to stop. Such a drastic change terrified me. No longer could I seek out the comfort of my ancient father, sit by him in the low glow of meditation candles. No longer could I probe his mind for all the knowledge he had gathered over the years, inquire about techniques he had yet to teach us, techniques he would never teach us, and why.

It wasn't fair! I remember an uncontrollable anger brewing in my chest, festering, rotting, bubbling- wanting to do nothing but sit and scowl and think. What had we ever done to deserve any wrongdoing? Even now, I sometimes try to tell myself if we had just stayed underground, maybe none of this would have ever happened, maybe he would still be with us. But then I think about Casey and April and my heart goes out to them. Without them, I don't see how my brothers and I would have developed the same. We would be different.

As luck would have it, two years later, tragedy struck our already tiny family yet again.

The details Don and I have gathered are vague, but sometime before The Shredder became just another whispered name on the streets, Stockman somehow managed to escape his grasp.

I don't know what The Shredder used to bind Stockman to him; he was a very intelligent and already powerful man.

Once, during the day, my brothers and I were at April's second new apartment, helping her get things in order since her old apartment had been burnt to the very foundation. There, a lone Stockman found us.

The manner in which he announced his arrival was far from subtle, smashing in through the window, taking out bits of brick with him.

Although his appendages were clearly robotic, underneath all that scrap metal was a human mind, as fragile as any other. And that particular day, he appeared to be more fragile than I'd ever seen him. It was almost pathetic.

He lashed out in anger, as if destroying us would be some sort of compensation for his destroyed body, his tarnished name. He wanted to blame his torturous existence on us. In a way, I suppose I can see his logic. If it were not for my family, April included, The Shredder would have left Stockman to die when he first plummeted into the water from the cable far. His body was rejecting itself, anyway.

The fight only lasted a matter of minutes before Donatello was able to disable Stockman's latest cyborg body suit. Mike and Raph had a field day from then on, kicking him around like some piece of trash.

It was then another oddity manifested itself.

Stockman announced that ever since he had worked with April, he had loved her, been in love with her. He proclaimed that it greatly pained him to have to attempt to kill her after his Mouser plans were foiled, but that The Shredder insisted she be disposed of.

_"I had nothing to do with it," he said, "I was under his control._"

Raph wanted to finish him off then and there. I guess that's why we are both so different. He wants to kill anyone who harms or threatens our family, get them out of the way quickly so they cannot return. Arguments between he and I often stem from my apparent inability to kill, to put an end to our wrongful torment.

Sometimes, though, I wonder if Raph had been right all along.

April, being the gentle soul we all know she is, took my side. She took pity on Stockman, recalling his fevered cries for his mother. She reasoned that he was a very sad, very lonely man who needed help. I agreed with her.

Unfortunately, during the discussion of what to do to Baxter Stockman (Mikey and Raph both insisted he would devise a plan to escape from local authorities), things went horribly awry.

I blame myself. I should have been faster. I should have been more alert. I should have been watching. Mikey blames me. I can see it in his crystal blue eyes, every time he looks at me. Raph probably does, too, but his hatred for me has slowly begun to fade; now some sense of civility can exist between us.

As April politely denied any affection for him, I swear you could literally hear the wheels in Stockman's brain come to a complete stop. He stammered and in a desperate attempt to have what he could not, he was somehow able to override the locks Don had put on his body and reached out, snatching April up in his robotic grasp. Naturally, we went after her, but we were too late. There was nothing we could do. Cackling like the mad man he was, Stockman jumped backwards; forcing himself out the same hole in the wall he made his first appearance. Mike and Raph risked being seen by diving out after them, but Don and I, as much as it pained us, held them back from the crumbling brick, pulling them back inside the building.

Seeing someone you love being torn from you, and having no way to stop it… I can't even describe the feeling. It left me with a deep, incurable, aching wound in the pit of my stomach.

Don solemnly assured us April had probably died on impact- that she hadn't suffered. I know it was supposed to make us feel better, but it didn't work.

I feel like I should have been able to do more. Like her death is my fault. I should have given the word. No, I should have been paying more attention. I was too caught up in what my emotions were telling me. I should have finished him when I had the chance, like Raph wanted to.

At this point in our lives things went from bad to worse.

Raph was at Casey's practically every other night, fearing that if he weren't there to roll him over and watch him, he might drink himself to death or drown in his own vomit. It was a scary thought, Don and I even considered the possibility of him being suicidal once or twice.

We all knew Casey Jones was not a suicidal person, but losing someone you are in love with can do strange things to a man.

Some nights Casey even stayed down in the lair with us, the crushing weight of the grief canceling out any comical claustrophobia we might have commented on some years earlier.

I clearly recall kneeling by my father's alter, asking for guidance. Losing him was hard enough, but April, too? Not only did I have to deal with the loss of my own father, and attempt to counsel three distraught siblings and a friend, I had lost my only other parental figure.

Now I was the bond that would make or break my family, now it was all on my shoulders.

From then on out, Donatello secluded himself in his lab, hid in chat rooms and forums on the Internet, pretending to be normal. Pretending not to be so broken and afraid.

Raphael did what he always does when confronted with a problem, train until his body literally cannot take anymore. Until muscles ache, scream, tear, train until he can't even make it to his own bedroom on his own. It seemed our father's passing was enough to stunt his anger for only a short while, before the injustice and unfairness of it all hit him head on.

Surprisingly, though, that rage began to fade too, little by little being replaced by an odd sense of clarity, calmness if you will.

Michelangelo…

Showed no definite signs of improving or suffering anymore than he had when our father died. I expected him to cry when we fled from the wreckage of April's apartment and into the sewers before being spotted, but was surprised to find he hadn't made a single noise the entire trip home.

Don assured me he would be fine, that it was a shock to his system. Nearly a week later and not a single tear, not even when I'd stand outside his door at night. He didn't appear to be in any emotional pain whatsoever, and that worried me more so than our constant grief.

How could I be expected to foresee my youngest brothers struggles, how could I have anticipated what would happen next?

_'I want to leave, Leo.'_

I remember grabbing him and shaking him- shaking him hard, asking him what he was talking about. Ordering him to explain. With all that had happened, the term had become quite literal to me. Leaving could mean many things. It could mean vacationing, getting away for a while, moving out. It could mean giving up. Dying.

As Don dangles his mask out and I watch Klunk jump into the air clawing wildly at the tips, I catch Michelangelo's gaze from afar. I smile faintly, as if offering a truce, but he simply reverts his eyes to the orange feline, and reaches out to stroke its fur.

Doesn't he realize how sickeningly wrong it is for him not to be smiling?

I frown and straighten up in the recliner, turning my attention back to the fire, suddenly realizing it is not as warm as it was only seconds ago. It's as if Mike's lifeless gaze chilled my area, encasing me behind a frosty window where I can only watch, not partake, in the games they play.

Logically, I know if I were to move onto my knees and scoot closer my brothers would include me in teasing and tormenting Klunk, but I don't feel as if I belong there with them. I feel as If I do belong somewhere on the sideline, watching, waiting, wanting to protect but not knowing how.

I try to tell myself it's only the first day, that tomorrow will be better, tomorrow will be another chance to retrieve Michelangelo, my Michelangelo, and drag him to the surface again. Even if he's cold and lifeless, there's still a slim chance I can bring him back to life, that I can save him before its too late.

I hope once Raphael arrives some normality will begin to settle between us, I even find myself hoping we might fall back into our old roles, just for old time's sake, because honestly, I don't think I can handle this much longer.

I once promised my father that we would always be together, no matter what. Back then it seemed like such a simple thing to accomplish, and now, I feel as though I have failed.


	5. Donatello

_Hello, folks. I'm doing swell, told you I wasn't going to abandon this. Ming, not abandoning something?! Amazing! Um, yeah. This took far longer than it seriously should have, and for that I must apologize. Sometimes, I just don't want to write. So, I don't. I'm not gunna mess with it anymore, lols.  
_

_Oh, and yeah, this ending blows and such, but I HAD to post things 'cause people keep emailing me asking when I'm going to update.  
_

* * *

Rolling onto my plastron I yawn, wedging my arm out from underneath me. It's asleep, so I let it dangle over the side of the bed and wiggle my fingers, hoping to bring some life back into them. Eyes still tightly closed, I frown into my pillow, trying my hardest to navigate back into oblivion. I can't help but feel like I've drifted away from something important.

I suddenly feel a light pressure on my shell and sigh deeply. I assume it's just Klunk, and decide to ignore it. But then something strikes me as particularly odd. Forcing my brows into an arch I lift my head off the pillow a bit, assessing the puzzlement. It's then that I realize I'm sleeping on my stomach. I haven't slept on my stomach since I was a kid, I think to myself. Back then, my brothers and I all slept together on the floor, and often times when we could not sleep, our father would sit beside us and gently rub the back of our shells in soothing circles, humming bits of lullaby's I can no longer place names to.

Opening my eyes, I turn my face to the wall, just biding my time until I have to actually get up. It's kind of funny how at home I'm usually up right before or after Leo, but here, I tend to want to sleep more and more.

Klunk decides no matter how much I shrug my shoulders around he doesn't want to leave my shell, so I simply roll onto my side and spill him onto the mattress. He mewls softly and curls up in the blankets coiled around my ankles. I wonder why he wasn't sleeping with Mikey.

Rolling to the side and shielding my eyes from the blinding white-gray sky, I frown, realizing it must be far later than I had initially thought. The fact that I can hear someone in the shower also confirms my theory.

Shaking myself awake with a lowly groan I quickly locate a small wooden table near my bed, where my laptop is set up. It's not the latest or most up to date, but it keeps my sanity intact when I can't access my own personal computer at home. I set it up the night we got here. I know it seems silly, but I feel better knowing Raph has two ways to reach me incase of an emergency.

I don't bother to make my bed on the way out (though it kills me), but leave my door open just a crack so Klunk can get out.

When I finally do make it downstairs, I'm somewhat surprised to see there is no breakfast laid out. I scowl lightly, feeling embarrassed because I automatically assumed Mike would become Mikey again, overnight. I guess I miss seeing him turned to an oven, twirling a spatula in his hand and animatedly chatting the morning away. I suppose it was foolish of me to think that just because we're under the same roof again, that things would go back to the way they were.

While wandering about the kitchen, I notice his nunchaku on the counter and stop near them, wondering why he doesn't put them away. I blame the fact that I hadn't noticed the mound of Post Its on the wall due to my drowsiness, and lean over to read them. Some are posted on top of others, in reds and blues and yellows, and in places where no Post Its are, pieces of paper are tacked up. Upon closer inspection I notice they don't really say anything of significance. Some of them say things like 'Pick up cat food', but the rest are just random words.

I almost want to laugh in realization that his handwriting was better when we were kids.

Feeling something brush against my ankle I jump back and glance around as if I had been caught doing something wrong, though logically I knew I hadn't been.

Sighing in relief I bend down to pick Klunk up, but as my fingers tough his fur, he squeaks and waddles out of my grasp. I try again to pick him up, but this time he bolts out of the kitchen and tries to make a speedy get away. I know he ran into something, though, so I go to make sure he's okay before rummaging something up for breakfast. I have a sad, sneaking suspicion that when I open the fridge I'll just find more Post Its, though.

Walking out of the kitchen I turn the corner and find Klunk sitting outside a door on the other side of the staircase. I assume it's a closet, but a soft snoring sound I hadn't heard before makes me think otherwise.

Mikey must have renovated it or something. I blink and take in the staircase, concluding it can't be too big of a room. I don't understand why he doesn't just sleep upstairs. Still, I knock at the door lightly and hear someone inside sit up, pause for a minute, and then fumble with covers. I guess he didn't realize how late it was, either. Or maybe he always gets up this late.

"Mikey?" I say quietly, to let him know it's me. I wish he'd answer quickly, because I feel like such an intruder.

A few seconds later the door creaks open and I blink in surprise at a beam of light pouring in through- a window? In here? It's catching me in the eye so I hold my hand up to block it away, then Mike shuffles in front of the beam and smiles shyly.

"Sorry," he says softly, clearing his throat.

Beyond my brother's morning face I spot a makeshift bed with muddy brown covers and a pillow aslant on the bed, the case half falling off. The bed has no actual frame, though there is a headboard.

"What time is it?" he grumbles, rubbing at his eyes sleepily. He leans into the door a bit and tries to cross his arms over his chest, shivering a little.

I shake my head, noticing the vest he was wearing yesterday hanging off the side of his bed. "I don't know, aren't there any clocks here?"

It's taken a little getting used to seeing Mikey without his mask. I think he looks a lot older. I used to think he and I looked a lot alike, and Leo and Raph looked more alike, but without his mask, I can see a very strong resemblance of Raphael. Mostly in his eyes, the way they're squinted a little, not exactly narrowed. They're still that chilling, sparkly steel blue, but they look aged now…

He shakes his head no when I ask him about the clocks. "I think I had one, but it broke."

"Doesn't that bug you?" I ask, still looking around the room.

"Not really."

I can see a rickety wooden shelf up against a wall. It takes me a minute, but when I figure it out, I ask anyway. "Did you build that?

Glancing over his shoulder he blinks and nods his head, shrugging a shoulder.

I'm surprised to find it's actually not that bad. It leans a little too much, so if you were to put a decent amount of pressure on it it might collapse, but it looks pretty sturdy. What surprises me the most though is the fact that I actually spot hardback book covers. In between a few of the books I can see the plastic lining of a select few comics, but the majority are actual books.

I've never seen Mike take interest in actual books, and the curiosity is killing me. What kind of books does he like? Mystery, fantasy, nonfiction, biographies, horror, history?

"Mikey, did you make that, too?" I point to the headboard and he looks over his shoulder again.

"That? Oh, yeah." He didn't really invite me in but I can't pass up this opportunity, so I gently push past him and go to admire it.

I hear him go, "uhhh," from somewhere behind me. He sounds embarrassed, but not in a humble kind of way, more of a 'hiding something' kind of way. I don't notice, though, and instantly start feeling the wood. One of the edges has a chip in it and it's a little crooked, but I can tell he spent a lot of time sanding it down. "How long did this take?"

He shrugs and wanders over, kicking something out of sight with his foot. "I started it after I first moved up here, then just kinda worked on it whenever. It got too cold to finish so I just drug it inside."

I notice a small plastic baggy rolled up in the corner of one of the cupboards. I hadn't noticed it before because it was shadowed over. I also the white top of what I assume to be a pill bottle. Mikey must realize I notice this too, because he suddenly says, "I did the window, too," to try to divert my attention.

I want to frown but don't, and turn away from the cupboard to focus my attention on the window. I shrug inwardly; he's an adult and can do whatever he wants. I've always tried to give him his own independence, I mean, none of us are perfect, we all have our vices. Raph drinks and smokes- although he said he's stopped, Leo drinks on occasion, too, and me? Well, I'm addicted to the Internet, but that's no real secret. I guess my next biggest addiction would be caffeine.

"Yeah?" I say, walking over to it. I immediately notice it's covered with a blanket and blink, fingering the material lightly. I turn to him for an explanation.

"Cold," he informs me. I nod, suddenly becoming aware of how chilly this particular room is compared to the rest of the house. I guess I hadn't noticed before.

"Why don't you sleep upstairs?"

"I don't like to sleep upstairs," he says, not bothering to go into further explanation. Growing up with Mikey for a younger brother, you eventually learn not to question some of the things he does, because upon further inspection, you'll find he doesn't know why he does certain things, either. He just does. "If it gets too cold I just sleep in the living room by a fire."

"Mikey this is…" I peel back the blanket and he cringes a bit. I don't, because I'm too enticed by the excellent framework to react to the blinding light. "This is really good."

"Nah," He smiles shyly; glad I turned my attention to the window and didn't mention anything about the baggy. "I kind of wish I hadn't of put it in, though. I didn't think about when it got colder. I probably should have saved the window for when I was better at this kinda stuff, I just needed something to keep me busy."

"No actually you matched it up pretty well, I can't even really see any holes or anywhere where it doesn't align." I keep tracing the window with my finger.

Shrugging, he moves over to me and begins fixing the blanket back over the window, smiling shyly.

A voice from the doorway catches us off guard. It's Leo. He sounds dumbfounded. "Why is there a window in here?" He asks carefully, unsure of himself.

Mikey's eyes drop to the floor and then move back up to Leo and he steps forward. I guess he really isn't comfortable having Leo in here. That makes me sad in a way.

"Mikey put it in," I say, making my way over to Leo.

"He put a window in?" Leo still sounds as if I just told him Mike is indeed not a turtle, but some form of dog. It kind of makes me irritated. I mean, I'm surprised, too, but Leo acts as if we're all still twelve. Even back then Mike could do things for himself; he just enjoyed torturing us, and whining until we did it for him.

"He was just talking about something in the barn he wanted to show me," I say, knowing if Leo goes to inspect Mike's handiwork he'll no doubt bring to attention what I have chosen to ignore.

I look at Mikey and he looks back at me.

I can tell Leo's spotted Mike's mask on the dresser because his mouth becomes a thin line suddenly and his voices lowers a little. He tries to sound enthusiastic, though. "What do you have in the barn?" He glances at me long and hard.

I turn to Mike expectantly to shake the weird feeling off Leo's giving me, hoping he actually has something in the barn. If not, my goose is cooked.

I want to sigh in relief when he says, "Just wait and see," grabs his vest and sticks an arm through it, then starts edging out of his room, indicating with his elbow for us to follow him.

But now I'm really wondering what he has in there.

On our way out the door Mike appears to perk up a bit, dashing over to the once-red-now-muddy doors of the barn. Before Leo and I even get there he's busy undoing the wooden latch keeping the door closed, and tugging the decrepit doors open. I'm amazed they aren't dry rotted yet, though, upon further inspection I realize they kind of are. At first, Leo and I glance warily at each other, not really sure how stable the establishment is, but Mike seems insistent that it's pretty safe.

The smell of hay and leather hits us instantly, and although there haven't been animals here in a number of years, you can smell them, too.  
Smiling a little Leo motions for me to go in before him.

It never really occurred to me how old the barn actually was until I saw the inside again. I guess it's been a while. The entire base of the barn is cleared of all hay (which is stored in a hayloft above head), exposing the cold hard earth.

All around us are aged stalls and wobbly wooden crates that have long been out of use. Hoes, plows, and bridles as well as other horse tack hang from hooks on the side of the stalls, the leather hard and cracked from misuse and exposure to the weather.

"Leo, would you look at that-"

He seems to be looking at something else, though, and curious as to what it is I crane my neck up like him. That's when I spot millions of root beer bottles lined up along the rafters. Our eyes ping pong from one rafter to the next, and it's then that we realize any flat, available surface is littered with a type of can or bottle.

"What is all this junk?" Leo asks me.

I blink and shrug, in a how-would-I-know manner. I swear, sometimes, it's like he expects me to just know things by looking.

Finally we locate Mikey. He's standing with his shell to us, fiddling with something I can't see.

"This is what you wanted to show us, Mikey?" Leo sounds a little disappointed, or irritated, I really don't know which.

Suddenly Mike turns around, aggressively exhibiting what appears to be a firearm. Before either of us can react he aims it off to the right and pulls the trigger.

I cover my ears and duck out of instinct, but I'm pretty sure glass just shattered, and it takes me an entire minute to figure out what just happened.

"Cool, huh?" Mike smirks lightly, lowering the assumed weapon.

"Where did you get a gun?" Leo asks sternly, but I quickly interject, informing him that it's just a bebe gun.

"Crosman C11," Mike proudly reports. Firearm still in hand, he gestures to the bottles lining the rafters and any other available surface. "Once they're all gone, I just sweep them up and start putting them up again." Both Leo's eye ridges are stuck in the air, his expression blank. Mike shrugs, "Before I got a TV, this was all there was to do."

'_You could have been practicing._'

Of course Leo doesn't say it, but I know he wants to. Instead, he holds his hand out expectantly. After a few seconds Mike hands it over, probably wondering if Leo's going to demand he gets rid of it. Instead, he studies it with his hands and eyes and then hands it back.

"So," Leo says casually. "You must think you're a pretty good aim, huh?"

Mike looks at me and I look back. Once again, how am I supposed to know what he's getting at?

"I guess?"

"Five dollars says you can't knock down that entire row," he says, motioning to a rafter directly above our heads.

"How did you even get those _up there?_" I ask in disbelief, stepping back with them so I can see it better.

"Five bucks?" Mike repeats, staring at the bottles thoughtfully. He strokes at his chin as I've seen our father do many times, squinting his eyes. Suddenly, he turns to me. "Donnie, you gunna throw down?"

Smirking, I cross my hands over my plastron and tilt my head. "Why not?" I say. "Five dollars."

Nodding, Mike takes a few more steps back, and begins to position himself. This takes nearly ten minutes, though I can't tell if he's doing it to be silly or if he really needs to adjust himself this much. It's kind of gotten hard to tell when and if he's joking around these days. Leo and I both cringe and cover our ears as a session of shots ring out, one after the other. Quite a few more shots than necessary, in my opinion, but when I look up, I'm surprised to find not a single bottle still standing.

Lo and behold, a few minutes later Leo and I are both gawking at the shattered, brown remnants of what once were root beet bottles.

"My aim isn't even that good," I protest as he walks over to us, smug as ever. Before he reaches us, he places the bebe gun on a rickety wooden shelf. "How is that even possible?"

He holds his hand out flat and points his index finger into his palm a few times. "Pay up."

Leo and I both share in an irritable sigh. He begins to pat himself down and shakes his head. "I must have left my wallet in my other shell."

Amazingly, Mike cracks the smallest of smiles.

"Leo, please," he says, gently nudging in between us. "_Please_, leave the joking to the turtles who actually have a sense of humor."

"I have a sense of humor!" He replies a bit too quickly. "Don't I, Donnie?"

He does, but this opportunity is just too good to pass up. Instead of defending Leo, I try to stifle a laugh and mirror Mikey's no-you-don't expression.

Leo rolls his eyes and pushes past us, hell bent on getting into the house before us. That's perfectly fine with us, though. Once Leo's gone Mike looks at me and smiles bashfully.

"I can't believe I went two years without that," I say softly.

"Without what?" he asks, cocking a brow curiously.

"That goofy smile." I didn't mean for it to come out so lovesick, but I guess there really wasn't any other way to say it.

"Come on, let's go before he locks us out," he mumbles softly.

I nod and eagerly begin to make my way out of the barn, help him close it up, and then we both start walking towards the house.


End file.
